It Don’t Matter How They Die
Somebody has got to die around here. Soon, or I won’t be eating much. Seems like this Great Depression would knock people off left, right and in between, but no. Even Mrs Anderson, all eat up with cancer, is still hanging on.
I was sure she would cooperate and die by now.
That Mr Perkins, over at the mercantile, he been bugging me to see a dead body. Since he’s known to have a bad heart, I figure he might die before somebody keels over and does it for him.
So, I hatched a one of my Hungover Plans as soon as he knocked on the front door.
“Why, Mr Perkins. Today is your lucky day. I happen to have a body, freshly dead, down there in the basement.”
He took off his hat and followed me down the stairs. I walked up behind him.
“See here? Rigor mortis.”
Mr Perkins moved closer to squint at the arm that hung out from under the sheet. “Can you make it bend at all when it gets like that?”
“Not atall. And, see this leg right here? It’s longer than the other one.”
About that time, the body sat up under the sheet. Started moaning. Loud.
Mr Perkins’ eyeballs almost busted clean out of his head, and he hightailed it out of there faster than I ever saw a human being move. Broke one of my good lamps on the way out the door.
I followed him, pretending to apologize, but really I hoped he’d have a heart attack and expire on the way home.
I’m still waiting for that call, but I did tip my boy with a jar of my best moonshine for doing his part.
Welcome to The Undertaker Series, a set of stories inspired by my father. He told me a story late one night, on our trip to Tennessee. If this is your first visit, please click here to go back to the beginning and click here for the second post in the story.